


I Want To Believe

by trylonandperisphere



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:56:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1738775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trylonandperisphere/pseuds/trylonandperisphere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cosima is trying to figure out her relationship with Delphine. This is my first fanfic, because Cophine equals Hell Yes, so comments & constructive criticism are very appreciated. Please note: this is a stream-of-consciousness piece, so grammar & punctuation aren't conventional. I started it at S2E1 & revised up to S2E5. Rated M for sex. Thanks!</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want To Believe

Sometimes I wonder who could have been my monitor before I got to U. Minn. Someone I dated? I had relationships, a couple intense, but I doubt long enough for one of them to be reporting on me or collecting my... samples. Who, then? A good friend? A.J.? Cara? Shit, someone in my  _family?_  Everyone and no-one I've known seems to fit, and ultimately, I never have time, with everything that's been going on, to think about it. Especially since I don't really want to.

Here, now, I know who it is, of course. Delphine. And now she knows I know, which... makes it a bit better? I don't know. Would that make it harder or easier for her to pretend, for me to believe, than if she'd denied it? I know there are plenty of women who are paid for faking far more than she has, emotionally... sexually. But she  _really_  knows her science. And she doesn't seem like that great an actress. I mean, she gets flustered. Damn, she's so cute when she gets flustered. And she worries for me. If she just called me "cheeky" or a "brat" now and then, I wouldn't be convinced. But I've seen her face when I say something Rachel Duncan or Leekie may not like. That last look of panic as she's dismissed from the room. What else could cause her to stare at me, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, maybe give a tiny shake of her head that looks involuntary? Could she be that concerned just for herself? What do they have on her?

I could really go chasing down  _that_  rabbit hole. What do they have on Delphine? Is it just her career that's at stake here? Does she have something in her past she's afraid of? Sarah told me that Paul had that thing in Afghanistan. Could she have done something wrong in the lab? Is there something wrong with someone in her family, or someone close to her? God, could she be married... have  _a child?_  Which would be worse – that, or if she's doing it for the prestige, the money?

I shut that thought off, because there's too much, too much going on and I have to look out for the others, for myself. This is not a Donnie situation. I'm aware that Delphine has her job to do. She's here when I need someone to listen. She holds my hand when we wait for results, or I get injections. She pushes me, maybe because DYAD wants results, but also, I think, because she knows how important our work is, and how much I need to be hands-on, stay focused, before I… or any of us – Allison, Sarah – succumb to this illness. She whispers two words:  _"mon amour."_

I mean, I know, as a scientist, that everyone has certain triggers, certain blind spots. But it's not just her beautiful, worried eyes, or things like the endearments, in French or in her sexy accent that gets me every time, giving me a nervous yet pleasurable reaction that shoots down between my legs, with a pit stop in my stomach. It's also the way she says it, her voice, how she touches me. Even when we're high or she's been drinking, that care she shows me, that depth, doesn't waiver. Even when there are things she can't talk about, can't tell me, that doesn't go away, though I can feel the guilt and sadness pouring off of her...

You'd have to be some... a  _spectacular_  actress to pull that off if you didn't care, right? I mean, look at just basic human behaviour, physical cues. Pupils dilating, breathing patterns, the sudden squeeze or tremble of a hand...

My mind goes there. To when we're in bed. I almost said when we're making love – should I say that?

I go over the first time. Maybe the first time was off. She closed her eyes and said she couldn't stop thinking about that kiss. What overwhelmed her – the thought of the kiss itself? Confused desire? Or just resolve to move forward, to lie? That first time was so quick, we barely got undressed. Then she cried afterward. Did she really usually cry before, with other lovers? Or was she overwhelmed by the realness of it, the deceit, the steps she had to take? Shit, and that was... that was when she went through my notes, when I got those stupid Eskimo Pies. She slept with me, then she betrayed me. Thinking about that brings back all the hurt, all my fears.

But she didn't report Kira. And she stuck beside me, after I tried to push her away, out. She helped me find that  _thing_  in my genome, that patent. She was there for me when I told her I was sick. Would I have this lab, these resources, if it weren't for her help? Could she... just have steered me in the direction Leekie wanted me to go?

But there wasn't just the first time. There's been the next, and the next... After I knew she was my monitor, she didn't have to touch me again. Or she could have just comforted me as a friend. But she didn't. We held each other, then we kissed. She didn't force anything, she just looked at me, open, eyebrows up and head tilted down, her forehead to mine. She stroked my lips with her thumb. And when I kissed her, it felt like she had willed me to do it, asked me with her gaze, to move through the doubt. And she did not hesitate. She kissed me back, deeply, and pulled me closer. She was with me every step of the way – not unsure, distracted, like she was before. She undressed me slowly, gently, by the borrowed bed. I wasn't ready for her to touch me everywhere – I felt too vulnerable. But when I slid on top of her, when I undressed her as we explored each other's mouths, lips, tongues, teeth, slowly, and my hands stroked her face, her neck, she looked at me directly in my eyes. And when my kisses, my hands moved further down her neck, her chest, cupping her breasts, rolling her nipples with my fingers and my tongue, her breath hitched, and little moans started to escape from her. She watched me, looked into my eyes whenever she could, until some touch, some stroke or bite I gave her caused her to close her eyes, her mouth slack, her fingers clutching my back, my head. When I kissed her labia softly, her breath expelled in a sudden  _"uh..."_  I touched her just inside, lightly, and she grabbed my hand, pulling it tighter. She clutched at my shoulder, my waist, pulling me up to kiss her. Looked into my eyes so intensely as my fingers slipped deeper inside of her and moved in, and out. She kept looking at me, gasping, biting her lip as our hips moved together, my fingers stroking deeper, faster, my thumb moving to her clit and circling, flicking. She was scratching my back now, on the verge of a scream, noises stuck and strangled in her throat. And then I felt it. Her thighs tightened and released. Her soft, wet interior pulled me in, gaped, my fingers curling and stroking her G spot... and then tightened, clamped down, vibrating and throbbing, her pelvis stuttering, bucking as she groaned out loud

_"Ohhhh, yes... oui... Cosima, Cosima, Cosima..."_

repeating my name again and again, until it turned into a whisper. Her body melted into the bed, her fingers slowly uncurling, her legs falling down. My calves ached where at some point her heels had caught and dug into them. And her eyes opened, not crying but full, serious, her hand on my cheek, her look like an apology, a promise, like I was the most precious thing in the world. And I fell into her, let her hold me, let her be the one solid thing to support me, keep me grounded . Me, the one so few people understand, and the one of us sisters who can understand the science, maybe help things, find a cure. God help me, I just wanted to feel… safe.

I mean, you can't fake that, right? The physiological response, that is – what I felt inside her. And again, the next time, she trembled for me as I trembled for her as I was coming again and again, her sweet, wild mouth all over me. And the times since then.

Even if I'm being stupid, even if I just need comfort, or affirmation of life... an affirmation that my body – engineered and produced, bound by law and captured by circumstance – is _mine._.. to share with her... even if I've just needed to give into pleasure, and know that they can't take that from me, even in my sickness... even if I was carelessly giving into the neural firing that makes up an orgasm, chemistry, feelings, patterning, what we humans – and I  _am_  human, patent or no – call the heart, that had to be real, right? That has to be real.

I know I should, but I can't think about it anymore. Not tonight. I can kiss her collarbone. I can let her hold me and stroke my hair, whisper assurances and endearments. I can close my eyes, let go, and fall, heavy, into sleep, release. At least until the light.

 


End file.
